


Axial Tilt

by inlovewithnight



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Multi, Poly V, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5692756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is their center point, the axis they turn on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Axial Tilt

Illya is their center point, the axis they turn on, a fact that Gaby knows annoys him to no end. She occasionally does him the favor of acknowledging it, while Napoleon blithely declines to admit it exists. This serves, among other things, to illustrate why they both find themselves drawn to him: Gaby cares best for those who do not require her caring, and Napoleon can only be tied to those able to endure his refusal to admit the tie exists at all.

Gaby also knows that Illya would not admit to requiring care even if he were actually on fire. And he will wait like a stone, for eternity, with Napoleon's surface indifference and subtle frantic worry wearing at him only as much as water on that stone.

It may eventually cut him to the heart, but that will take a very, very long time. And in their line of work, they're more than likely to be dead by then.

**

Gaby never has lost her fondness for picking at Illya’s calm. She loves to scratch at his surface, over and over again, digging in until he reacts.

The moment his stillness snaps, the heartbeat when he goes from immobile to _enough_ \--she thrills to that. It's the best ending to the chase.

They're training each other with that adrenaline rush, and what comes after it. His hands, big enough to span her back, his body weighty and solid holding her down, their mouths claiming each other as territory won inch by inch in sweet-sharp war. It's neurochemical reinforcement that they should never become easy with each other. Ease would give away more than it would give them, as far as either of them could see.

**

She doesn’t know how it is for him and Napoleon. She can guess, from the way they continue to spar and snarl their way through the day to day. They would rather fight than admit what is growing between them, the slow-spun webs wrapping all three of them up in patterns that none of them can see yet. 

Sometimes Gaby thinks she catches a glimpse of them, shadows just out of sight. She think she might know what the patterns are, what all of this means.

But what goes on between Illya and Napoleon, when they’re alone, is a gap in the information she has, and she can’t put anything together to bridge that. She doesn’t know enough to even speculate.

She sees, sometimes, the deep-purple love marks on Napoleon’s throat or shoulder, visible when he changes his shirt to dress up or down, to infiltrate or train. She sees Illya scowl at the difficulty of cufflinks, and then expression ease when he realizes that those are Napoleon’s bits of frustrating jewelry he’s using, not his own. Tokens left behind, in each direction; tokens accepted, not returned or brushed aside. 

She can fit that into the patterns she thinks she sees, the webs spinning outward from Illya and binding her and Napoleon in. It’s not a clear picture, not yet, but it’s something.

**

“Gaby,” Illya says one night, when she’s found her way to his bed and they’ve taken each other away and back. “Do you think this can continue to work? For how long?”

“For as long as we want it to.” She stretches her arms over her head, luxuriating in the large beds and soft sheets that are handed out so easily in London. “We’re not at the mercy of arbitrary rules. No religion, for you and I.”

“I think Solo is an atheist as well.”

“Have you asked him?” She turns on her side to face him, propping herself up on her elbow. Talking about Napoleon in bed gives her a bit of a thrill. Less than the dignity and control an agent of UNCLE should show, perhaps, but--fun.

“No.” He shakes his head, still lying stiffly on his back, gazing straight upward. “But I’ve deduced, from a few remarks. At least it’s a theory.”

“You should ask him.”

“I think not.” A muscle twitches in his jaw; she knows she can only push a bit further before it’s too far. “And you’ve managed to take us away from my first question.”

“I answered it. Yes, it can work, for as long as we want it to. When we don’t want it anymore, it stops.”

“Just like that.”

“Yes. Just like that.”

He lies still for another moment, his eyes fixed and unblinking, then rolls on his side, his back to her. His breath steadies into the coldly regular pattern of false sleep.

She thinks about slapping the back of his head, of hitting a good stiff blow to his cervical vertebrae with the heel of her hand. It wouldn’t accomplish much, and she’s a practical woman. She’ll wait.

**

A few mornings later, Napoleon catches her in the commissary, smiling faintly. “Teller, I had the strangest conversation with Peril.”

“Oh?” She keeps her eyes on her breakfast, instead of searching the edges of his clothing for telltale teethmarks and bruises. “On what subject?”

“Religion.” He shakes his head. “He was terribly disappointed to learn I was raised Catholic. I can’t imagine why.”

“Catholic?” she asks as casually as she can.

“Lapsed, of course. Terribly lapsed.” He shakes his head again. “A good black coffee and a hot meal will put all this to rest.”

She nodded and lifted her teacup to shield her mouth. “I’m sure.”

He walks away and she permits herself a moment of genuine, if quiet, laughter. Oh, Illya. She’d set him up for that, and he most certainly wasn’t pleased about it. But she couldn’t bring herself to be sorry.

**

There’s a mission where everything goes badly. Just--badly. Civilians killed. Objective unattained. Illya takes it hardest, as he always does.

Gaby and Napoleon meet each other outside Illya’s room that night. They look at each other in silence, reach an agreement with their eyes, and jostle the lock together to let themselves in.

Illya sits up, gun in hand, then drops it to the sheets when he sees them. “Going to be killed. Both of you.”

The chill in his voice doesn’t cover the ache beneath. It would for anyone else, perhaps, but they know him, now. They can read him.

And he doesn’t tell them to leave.

They lie down on either side of him, still in silence, coordinating with each other by glances and touch. Gaby’s arm wraps around Illya’s waist. Napoleon’s legs tangle with Illya’s own.

They lie still. They breathe. The moonlight tracks across the room, and eventually, Illya falls asleep.

After that, so can they.

**

Something shifts after that night. Gaby can’t put a name to it; it’s nothing tangible, more of a sense or a feeling. A glimpse from the corner of her eye. 

Or maybe a change in Illya’s eyes. Not a softness, exactly, not warmth, but there’s a difference when he looks at her and Napoleon. A new thoughtfulness, maybe. Something in his evaluation has changed. 

She thought he would push them away after they saw him in a state of vulnerability--and _both_ of them, no less. She expected to be shoved back by a solid wall of ice.

But instead, this: stasis, neutrality, with a difference in his eyes. It all has a distinct air of _waiting_ ; a change is approaching, as steadily as the turning of the clock or of the seasons. Something is inevitable, but she doesn’t know what it is. It won’t come from her, or from Napoleon; the change must come from Illya, because he is the axis. He stands at the center, and they wait for him.

She wonders what he’s waiting for. 

**

A knock comes at her door after midnight, when she’s sitting up in bed with files spread out around her and papers in each hand. “Who is it?” she calls, the words muffled and misshapen by the pen clenched between her teeth.

“It’s me.” 

Illya. She relaxes her jaw and the pen falls; she watches a spot of ink bloom across the bedsheets. “I’m sure you can pick the lock, then.”

“My hands are full.”

Frowning, she sets the papers down and climbs out of the bed, pulling her hair back into a loose knot as she crosses to the door. “What are you up to at this hour?”

“Time is a meaningless construct.” He’s holding a plate of some sort of cake in one hand, and a samovar in the other. “I brought tea. I hope you have teacups, though.”

“I’m sure I can find something.” She steps back and lets him sweep inside. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I was walking outside and saw your light was on. If you’re up this late, you need fuel for your mind and body.” He nods to the cake and tea, now set neatly on the table. “So.”

“So.” She nods. “Well. Thank you.”

He stands there, stiff and staring at her, and that _something else_ is still in his eyes. “There’s another thing.”

“Oh? Honey for the tea?”

“No.” He hesitates, then takes a half-step forward. “I thought perhaps I could keep you company. While you work.”

It’s hard to keep from smiling. She probably won’t manage it longer than a few seconds. “But won’t that keep you from getting _your_ sleep, comrade?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re mocking me.”

“A little bit.” She goes to the windowsill and selects the least dirty two of the teacups lined up there. “Not much.”

He watches her wipe the cups with the hem of her nightdress. “So may I stay?”

She sets the cups on the table and lets herself smile, victory warm in her throat. “Pour the tea, Illya, and take a chair. I’ll be at this for a while.”

**

It takes longer than she expects--over a week--before Napoleon finds her in the commissary one morning and sits across from her with a puzzled expression on his face. “Teller, I had the oddest visit from Peril last night.”

“Did he bring you tea?” she asks.

When his jaw drops, she can’t keep from laughing. And once she begins, she can’t seem to stop.

**

They’re airlifted out under fire, bullets flying close enough that she knows she’ll catch herself shaking for days, the back of her mind storing up the fear to bring back at unpredictable intervals until it’s all used up.

Napoleon is bleeding from the face, but he brushes the medics aside with a curt “Flesh wound. Take care of Kuryakin.”

Illya is bleeding and bleeding, laid out on the floor. Gaby watches him as if from a great distance. They’re not far from a safehouse, but _not far_ doesn’t have much meaning compared to all this blood.

Napoleon takes her hand. There’s a long moment before the feeling makes any sense--warm fingers against her own, squeezing gently. When she remembers that the gesture is one of reassurance, she squeezes back.

For once Napoleon doesn’t say anything, for which she is profoundly grateful. She has a lot on her mind. It would be annoying to have to punch him in the throat.

**

When Illya wakes up they’re sitting on either side of his bed, each with a hand resting on one of his.

“This worries me more than the bullets,” he says, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. It’s probably the blood loss, Gaby knows, but the look in his eyes is distinctly close to softness now.

“It should,” Napoleon says. “We’re far more dangerous.”

“You’re not getting rid of either of us, you know,” Gaby says. She runs her thumb across Illya’s knuckles. “Not today. Probably not ever.”

“Terrifying thought,” Illya mutters, closing his eyes again. Gaby sees the twitch at the corner of his mouth, though. The slightest threat of a smile.

“So terrifying it puts him right to sleep,” Napoleon notes, and Gaby lets herself smile for all of them.


End file.
